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in the stable the old horse was already, as he ruefully
remarked, looking "properly tucked-up", and the
long distances to the meets were an additional
hardship for him.

As I lit my pipe I felt that I ought to be blissfully
reconstructing the day's sport. But there seemed to
be no blissful details to reconstruct. The hounds had
run fairly well for about half an hour, but very little
of it had been in the open. And I had been so busy
hanging on to my excitable horse that I had only a
hazy recollection of what had happened, except that
Bill Jaggett had damned my eyes for following him
too closely over the only jumpable place in a fence.
Bill Jaggett was, to my mind, one of the horrors of the
Hunt. He was a hulking, coarse-featured, would-
be thrustcr; newly rich, ill-conditioned, and foul-
mouthed. "Keep that bloody horse well out of my
way,95 was a specimen of his usual method of verbal
intercourse in the hunting-field. What with the
vulgarly horsey cut and colour of his clothes and the
bumptious and bullying manners which matched
them, he was no ornament to the Dumborough Hunt;
to me he was a positive incubus, for he typified every-
thing that had alarmed and repelled me in my brief
experience of fox-hunting. Except for the violent
impression he made on my mind I should have said
nothing about him; but even now I cannot remember
his behaviour without astonishment. He was without
exception the clumsiest and most mutton-fisted horse-
man I have ever observed. No horse ever went well
for him, and when he wasn't bellowing at his groom
he was cursing and cropping the frothing five-year-old
which was carrying his fifteen stone carcass. (He
usually rode young horses, since he flattered himself
that he was "making" them to sell at a profit; but as